


The Long Road Ahead

by MudaMuda



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Age Difference, American Revolution, Corporal Punishment, M/M, Revolutionary War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 09:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11826213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MudaMuda/pseuds/MudaMuda
Summary: America wants to achieve what his heart really yearns for, but the path to freedom is riddled with obstacles.





	The Long Road Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on the idea of a revolutionary war fic for a long time...

 

_Long Island_

 

The first time America mouthed off and said something “ridiculous” about freedom, it was after he had been reading political philosophy. Locke, Descarte; the enlightened men writing from a continent across the sea, shared _ideas_ in the pages of their work that made America’s spirit flare with excitement. The promise of happiness, their conceptions of a better society, an _ideal_ society, gave him ideas of his own that, truly, he could make something greater from himself.

Then, like with all things fun and sensational, England found out and ruined it for him.

They were having tea together. _Dreaded_ tea time, that England had insisted upon having for as long as he could remember, and which he had just recently come to despise. He felt like a bug under a pin every time England made him sit down with him: stiff and uncomfortable, even when they had nothing incendiary to talk about. England would watch him, prod him with loaded small talk (he knew America couldn’t stand how he never said what he meant) and make him squirm as he coolly stirred his tea.

America glared into the china cup in front of him, full of steaming, black tea that he hadn’t touched. He didn’t even _like_ tea, but it wasn’t like England cared about what he wanted.

They hadn’t been getting along well, lately. Of course, England blamed him completely for being difficult; for the tension, but in his stupid, indirect way. This was when he first mentioned his interest in political philosophy.

“You’ve developed quite an interest in those pamphlets,” he said.

“What pamphlets?” America muttered, even though they both knew what he was referring to. England fixed him with a curt _stop-being-difficult-America_ look, then shook his head.

“Rubbish, all of it. Like a gossip magazine. I don’t want you reading any philosophy, it’s giving you attitude.”

“More like, ideas beyond my station.”

“Of course,” England said, lifting his teacup to his mouth. “You have no business reading that kind of material. It’s not going to stimulate you intellectually, just put silly ideas into your head that have no functional purpose for a young colony like you.”

“Silly ideas like freedom? Is that silly?”

England looked like he wanted to smile, but instead, his expression settled into a constipated half-scowl. He lowered his teacup without taking a sip.

“Are you being facetious?” he asked.

“Is the idea that I could be my own country silly to you?”

“I don’t imagine you could manage such a thing.”

America was so tired of him. “You’re an ass,” he said.

The bottom of England's teacup collided loudly with the saucer. He tilted his head to the side inquisitively.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, you’re an ass!” America snapped.

England squinted at him. “I understand this may be difficult for you to accept, given your enormous ego, but the fact of the matter is, the American colonies are quaint but backwards. The people are as simple and contrary as the boy who represents them.”

Anger burned in America’s chest. “Yeah, and they’re under your rule. What does that say about you?”

“Not a thing. I keep you for your resources, provide for you in return, and expect you to adhere to my laws. It doesn’t take any skill to colonize a simple people.”

America reared up and slammed both palms on the table. “Stop calling me simple!”

“Well!” England said. “Perhaps if you could manage to discuss this with some semblance of gentility, I wouldn’t have to.”

England wasn't shaken up at all. In fact, he glared at him sternly, like America was supposed to have sat quietly and said “yes, England” while he was insulted, and the fact that that was probably exactly what England expected burned him up.

“So what you're saying is, if I did whatever you asked without complaining, you'd be considerate enough to not talk down to me? Screw you!”

“For goodness’ sake, boy, sit down.”

“No!”

“Sit down _at once._ And lower your voice. You act like I raised you in a barn.”

“You were barely even _around_ to raise me!” America shouted. “All you do anyway when you're here is order me around and insult me! I’d _rather_ be living in a barn if it meant I could set my own terms, without you messing with _my_ life in _my_ country!”

England, who had been glaring, was now giving him an odd look. It was his suspicious look, the kind he used when he was about to get nosy and interrogate him. Too bad for him, he wasn't planning to stick around any longer.

“Obviously, I’m not fit to be in the presence of Mr. High and Mighty England,” America said. He gave a sweeping, exaggerated bow and started away from the table. England reached out and grabbed him by the arm.

“Ow! What the hell?” he resisted as England pulled him closer, his fingers digging into his skin. When England spoke to him now, his voice was lower. More accusing.

“You've always been rowdy and coarse, but this disobedience is new. What are you at?”

“Whatever I want. You don't own me.”

“Yes I do. You know that, so why are you being insufferable?”

“Because I don't like being owned.”

“Is that so?” England asked. “And what _would_ you like, America?”

His voice was as thin and sweet as the sugar on the table, shining in its tiny glass bowl. America got the feeling he didn’t really care what he would like. But his attitude was really annoying him, so he mimicked his syrupy voice and told him what he wanted anyway.

“Representation in Parliament, for a start. It’s not fair that only the colonizer decides all the laws, and my people have no right to speak against it. Or even to have a voice.”

That wiped the smirk off England’s face.

“You won’t be getting representation, because I know what’s best for you.”

“You’re not me. How do you know what’s best?”

England looked exasperated. “It’s more _what_ I know. It’s a situation I would care to avoid: a colony with power; the means to rebel, is sooner or later _going_ to rebel.”

“What if that's what I want?” he asked.

England’s palm struck his cheek. Not hard, but enough to shock him. America scowled at him as he withdrew his hand.

“Listen to me carefully,” England said, his lip curling in unmitigated scorn. “If you dare act against me, there will be consequences. Pray you decide to be obedient.”

America narrowed his eyes. “Make me.”

England slapped him again. This time it felt like he meant it.

“Hit me all you want,” America said. “I’m not going to listen.”

England leant down into his face, and spoke evenly: “Treason is the worst crime against the Empire. Keep running your insolent mouth, and you’ll be severely punished. I’ll have your undying respect and loyalty, or I’ll have your dignity.”

“No.”

“You talk like you have power, America, but I give you everything. Without my provision and direction, you'll quickly realize how weak you are.”

“Maybe if you stopped taxing the hell out of me, I’d be strong.”

England scoffed. “I take as little as I can from you, and you whine that it’s too much. I hate to see how you'll whine when I increase taxes further.”

America’s chest filled with anger. “ _When_ you increase them? _”_

“Yes, _when._ I have that right, and it is your _obligation_ to accept that. And if you do not, you will be punished for each transgression until you have learnt to respect me.”

“But I don’t--”

“I will not hear another word about this,” England said. “You will choose to be obedient, or there will be hell to pay.”

He sat him back down on his side of the table. His attention settled on America’s untouched cup.

“Drink your tea.”  

America did, hatefully. At this point it was so cold and bitter that he could barely swallow.


End file.
